


Blind Love

by inspiration_assaulted



Series: Blind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inspiration_assaulted/pseuds/inspiration_assaulted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Blind Marriage.</p><p>After he returns to England, John and Sherlock struggle into life as a married couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: You asked, and I have answered! Updates will be somewhat sporadic, but I promise not to leave my adoring fans (you lovely people) hanging with long waits between chapters!

John followed Sherlock out of the building in a cloud of joyous awkwardness. They were both so happy to see each other, but neither had the faintest idea of what to say. John’s hand twitched, wanted to take Sherlock’s, but he resisted, not knowing how well the gesture would be taken.

Despite being married for over three years, almost four, John felt rather like he was on a blind date.

Sherlock had the ability to conjure taxis from nowhere, which both amused and annoyed John. Cabs always passed him by.

John traced a hesitant fingertip along the outside of Sherlock’s wrist, startling him. “Were you working on a case just now?”

Sherlock’s throat worked for a second, and his hand twitched under John’s touched. “Yes,” he huffed out. “Lestrade called me on scene yesterday. You would have loved it, John,” he grinned quickly, “it was at least an eight.”

John let Sherlock ramble on about a fenced-in garden with a gate locked on the outside and how criminals who know about forensics made the Work fun, but he was more interested in Sherlock’s hand under his. As Sherlock spoke, he slowly rotated his hand over, allowing John’s fingers to slide into the spaces between his before squeezing gently.

“Impressive,” John murmured as Sherlock explained his reasoning about small indents in the dirt near the fence and a handful of green paint flakes that led to the brother and his green ladder. Sherlock gave him another fleeting grin and looked away.

“We’re here.” He paid the cabbie and John hauled himself out of the car. Sherlock looked at him oddly as he adjusted his grip on the cane but said nothing as he led the way into the restaurant.

“Ah, Sherlock!” a big man with a ponytail and an apron greeted with a booming voice. “Welcome, welcome! Anything on the menu, free of charge, for you and your date.” He turned to John, grinning broadly. “This man got me off a murder charge,” he said, leading them to a table.

“This is Angelo. Four years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that he was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking,” Sherlock explained, tugging off his scarf in a smooth motion. He sat in the chair facing the window, leaving John to look over the restaurant.

“He cleared my name,” Angelo continued proudly.

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock countered, sounding amused.

Angelo ignored him, leaning toward John and dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Without him, I’d have gone to prison.”

“You did go to prison,” Sherlock pointed out.

Angelo seemed completely unconcerned by that fact. “I’ll get you a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.”

“Actually,” John spoke up, “could we sit somewhere else?”

* * *

 

Sherlock observed John carefully, noting his tight grip on the cane and the way his eyes flicked around the room and out the window, the way he angled himself toward the main part of the restaurant.

“Yes,” he agreed, standing. “Perhaps somewhere in a corner, Angelo?”

The proprietor looked at him slightly askance, but he had experienced enough of Sherlock’s seemingly bizarre behaviour to know better than to question him. He just nodded, leading them to another table in the back near the kitchen.

“I’ll send Tommy by in a few minutes,” he said, handing them menus.

“You have PTSD,” Sherlock said bluntly, but he kept his voice down. “You won’t present your back to a room.”

John hummed, but his neck was stiff and he kept his eyes on his menu, though they weren’t moving. “I know that.”

“You noted each exit as we came in, and you position yourself to provide the smallest possible target,” Sherlock continued.

“Yeah, well, the last time I gave someone my back I got shot,” John said harshly, and Sherlock flinched. John sighed, rubbing his eyes. “What are you pushing for, Sherlock? This isn’t exactly dinner conversation.”

“I-,” Sherlock floundered, unsure of himself. “I can remember every word we ever said to each other. Every letter, every conversation. After…when you called last time…” This wasn’t working, he didn’t have the words! “You changed. You were…less bright. Unhappy.” John wasn’t looking at him, but Sherlock studied his husband intently. “Your limp’s psychosomatic,” he said in a rush. “It’s bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair, like you’ve forgotten about it- “

“Sherlock,” John warned.

Sherlock continued, leaning forward intently. “The wound is long healed, but the circumstances were traumatic. It was a psychiatric evaluation that almost got you dismissed last time, but the pain is a manifestation of stress, so it’s safe to say the original injury occurred almost four years ago, which would make it approximately the same time you were nominated for the Victoria Cross- “

“Dammit, Sherlock!” John slammed a fist down on the table, making the silverware jump. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and visibly reigning his temper in. “Don’t. Just- ,” he broke off with a pained hum.

Sherlock shrank back, cowed.

“I never wanted that medal,” John said quietly. His eyes weren’t focused on anything in the present when they opened again, dark and desperate. “There were others. They should have gotten it.”

“John,” Sherlock pleaded helplessly, “I’m sorry…”

John sighed. “It’s fine. I know we’ll have to talk about it. Some day.” He gave Sherlock a flat look. “But not today, yeah?”

* * *

 

They had managed to stumble their way into a pleasant dinner, with Sherlock talking about his cases and experiments and John telling his husband about his more daring surgeries and field rescues.

Then it came time to leave and it instantly got awkward again.

“Baker Street is just a few blocks from here,” Sherlock ventured quietly. “It’s…an easy walk.”

John was finding it difficult to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Er, my things are still at the bedsit.”

John’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, signalling a text. “Right, of course,” Sherlock mumbled as John opened the message.

**Your belongings have been moved to Baker Street, courtesy of Mr M Holmes. –A**

John grinned wryly. “Actually, it seems my omniscient brother-in-law has…checked me out of the bedsit already.” He looked up at Sherlock, who was wound tighter than a spring. “I guess we’re moving in together. Um, if that’s alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed, the corners of his mouth tilting up. “Yes, that’s alright.” He helped John into his jacket.

John noticed the way his expression shifted when he picked up the cane. “You hate it,” he realised.

“Of course,” Sherlock snapped. He took a deep breath through his nose. “You hate it too,” he pointed out. “The pain isn’t real, it’s just in your head.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt any less,” John replied flatly. “I’m dealing with it, ok?”

Sherlock looked away in defeat. “What if you took my arm?” he asked suddenly. “Would you need the crutch then?”

John thought about that. He despised the fact that he needed anything to support himself, unable to walk on his own, but if it was Sherlock…this was his husband. Surely it wasn’t weak to accept help from one’s spouse? “Let’s try it,” he decided.

Sherlock too his cane in one hand, looping John’s through his elbow instead. It was slow going with John leaning on him every other step, but it worked. It was…kind of nice, actually. John wondered if it was having someone help him because they knew he didn’t want to rely on the cane rather than just to be polite. The nurses in the base hospitals had always tried to help him, but it always came off as pitying or patronising, so he had snapped at them until they stopped. Sherlock just pretended there was nothing out of the ordinary, like healthy twenty-eight year old men needed help walking down the street every day.

“Mrs Hudson is the landlady,” Sherlock said as they strolled sedately the four blocks to Baker Street.

“Right, you told me about her in your last letter,” John murmured. “You told her about us, right.”

Sherlock nodded. “She’s surprisingly unflappable. Perhaps it’s the experience of being married to a serial killer with a drug cartel.”

“The husband you got the death sentence for?” John asked, recalling what all Sherlock had written in his last letter. He couldn’t refer to the letter itself anymore, since it had gained a bullet hole and a large blood stain recently.

“Exactly.” John could feel the rumble of Sherlock’s deep laugh when he leaned against the man. “One of the most interesting cases I’ve solved. He was very clever, only killed in Florida on his business trips. Mrs Hudson’s giving me- us a reduced rate on the rent.”

“Kind of her,” John snorted. Sherlock laughed again, leaning into John himself that time.

“This is it,” he said, steering John up a couple steps to 221B, next door to a café.

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson opened the door before Sherlock could, his hands tied up with supporting John and holding his crutch.

“Sherlock!” she cried, taking his face in her hands and kissing both cheeks. “You must be the doctor husband.”

“Yes,” John smiled warmly, letting her take his hand in both of hers. “John Holmes.”

“Oh, you two are so sweet!” she tittered, ushering them inside. “It’s lovely to meet you, Doctor Holmes. Sherlock was in such a state when he heard the bad news,” she added in a stage whisper.

Sherlock felt John tense. “This way, John.” He led John up the seventeen stairs to the B flat. “No doubt Mycroft’s people left everything in boxes in the middle of the room, so we should probably get started sorting those out- ,” he stopped, opening the door and catching sight of the three boxes that were the entirety of John’s things.

John chuckled. “You were saying?” he smirked, taking back his cane and letting go of Sherlock’s arm. He looked around the flat, nodding approvingly. “I like this, this is very nice.” He poked his head into the kitchen and laughed at the glassware covering the table. “Of course. You.”

Mrs Hudson bustled about, moving John’s boxes out of the way. “You just sit down and rest your leg, Doctor Holmes, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”

“John, please.” He dropped into the red armchair that had mysteriously appeared a few days prior, courtesy of Mycroft, with a relieved groan and straightened his leg. Sherlock sat opposite him in his usual chair. “Cup of tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Just this once,” she admonished. “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“That’s a human skull,” John said, pointing to the offending bone with his cane. “And…the Cross,” he added, noticing the velvet box beside it.

It was very telling how John didn’t refer to it as ‘his Cross.’

“It is,” Sherlock replied, deciding to ignore the whole business of the medal after the awkwardness at dinner. “A friend of mine. Well, I say friend…I think better when I speak aloud.”

“It’s an awful thing,” Mrs Hudson added, coming back into the flat with a tea tray. “It isn’t appropriate for a sitting room.”

“Is there any place appropriate for a human skull?” John quipped. “Just milk, thanks.”

“Milk, two sugars,” Sherlock said when she looked at him expectantly. “Leave the boxes for tomorrow, John, you’re clearly tired.”

John gave him an unreadable look. “I’ve done sixty hours straight on duty before,” he said mildly, but there was a hint of steel in his voice. Sherlock got the message.

_Don’t try to coddle me, Sherlock. I am still a soldier._

“But I am a bit knackered,” he conceded, draining the last of his tea. “I think I’ll turn in.” He glanced at the boxes again. “Just as soon as I find the box with my clothes.”

“The one in the middle,” Sherlock said, and John flashed him a quick grin.

Mrs Hudson spoke up hesitantly. “There’s another bedroom upstairs,” she pointed unnecessarily, “if you’ll be needing two. I don’t know how you two are…”

Sherlock froze. Oh, this was something he hadn’t thought about. Sharing a bed with John. Did John want to? Did he want to? He…liked John, certainly, but he didn’t really want to share a bed with him. At least, not yet.

He looked up at John, who was watching him with a gentle, understanding expression. “Yes, I think I’ll take the upstairs room.” He stood, not without effort, and collected the box full of clothes. “Goodnight, Mrs Hudson,” he added pointedly. She scurried out of the room with a faint blush.

“John, you don’t have to-“

“Sherlock,” he cut the detective off. “Yes, I did. I’m just as lost and nervous about this as you are.” He stepped closer to Sherlock, right up to his chair. “And now I’m going to bed.”

Sherlock looked up at John, confused and – dare he say it – _pleased_ by the flash of heat in the man’s eyes. John bent, leaning in further, closer…

And kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter 2

_John’s world was naught but dust and harsh sun and pain. He wrapped a tourniquet around the base of a blown-off limb and stepped back to let the other medics rush the unconscious soldier into the back of a truck._

_“Captain Holmes!” John turned as someone else shouted his name, already grabbing his kit and running. “Holmes! Doc!”_

_John threw himself into the dirt, skidding to a rest on his knees next to another bleeding body. He didn’t look at the soldier’s face, didn’t take him in as a person, only another injury. He took in the gaping gut wound, ordering the pair of hands hovering in the edge of his vision to put pressure on it as he yanked supplies out of his kit._

_The soldier’s pale hand caught his wrist as he went to apply the first bandage, the long fingers wrapping around and leaving bright smears of blood._

_“John…”_

_John looked up into Sherlock’s face, grey with blood loss. Those pale, eerie eyes fixed on John’s, staring into his soul._

_“Sherlock,” John gasped._

_Sherlock raised his free hand to John’s face, cradling it. “John…” Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed slowly and his hand fell away._

_“Sherlock?” John was holding Sherlock’s wrist now, gripping it tight enough to bruise. “Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”_

_A bullet ripped through John’s shoulder and the world shattered as he screamed._

John cut his scream off abruptly, jerking awake. He wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore, he was in the bedroom of a central London flat, living with his husband. Sherlock was safe, alive, he had never been in Afghanistan, never worn fatigues or had his stomach ripped open by shrapnel.

It was always the hardest to believe while his heart was still racing, blood pounding in his ears.

The desperate adrenaline high gave way to helpless tears, as it so often did, and John buried his face in his knees.

“John?”

John rolled his head to the side to see Sherlock standing in the doorway with a glass in his hand, draped in a dressing gown and dressed for bed. He was rumpled and sleep-mussed, but alive, gloriously alive.

“I…brought you some water.” He offered up the glass.

John scrubbed the tears off his face with his hands and reached for it, downing the cool water gratefully. “Sorry,” he grunted. “New place. Sometimes it happens.”

“Nightmares are a natural and expected psychological response to fear, stress, and traumatic events,” Sherlock rattled off, but he sounded unsure of himself. “They’re also common to sufferers of PTSD. Any or all of these factors could be the cause of yours-“

“Sherlock.” John raised a hand, cutting the younger man off. “I know. I’ve had a few bad dreams in my time.” He set the glass on his bedside table.

Sherlock wrung his hands, his gaze skipping around the room before landing on John again. “I don’t know what to do now,” he admitted quietly. “I could play? You like Brahms, it’s light and simple, major keys-“

“Stay,” John whispered.

“What?” Sherlock faltered.

“Stay with me. That’s what you can do.” John scooted over in his bed, making room, and flipped the covers back. “My dream…I need to know you’re alright.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open with a surprised “Oh,” and he sat on the edge of the mattress. “You dreamed about me.”

“There were other things, too,” John pointed out, “but yeah, you were there.”

Sherlock tossed his dressing gown over the chair in the corner and slid under the covers next to John. He lay on his back, carefully on his side and not touching John. John chuckled faintly at his nervous expression, knowing his husband wasn’t opposed to touching him. He certainly hadn’t been at the hospital, only unsure of how John would take it.

John rolled on his side, laying an arm across Sherlock’s chest to feel the steady beat of his heart under his hand. Sherlock slid his own arm around John, threading his fingers lightly through John’s short hair.

“I’m here, John,” he soothed. “It’s all right. Sleep.”

John hummed and slowly relaxed, gentle sleep pulling at the edges of his mind.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke slowly, warmer than he could ever remember being in his own bed. A smaller body was tucked into his side, one arm thrown across his chest and warm puffs of breath hitting his skin where a head was tucked into the crook of his neck. His own arm was holding the body tightly against him, his fingers curled in short hair.

 _John_.

He must not have had any more nightmares. He would have woken Sherlock up if he had. They were in the center of the bed, both of them having migrated toward each other in the night. Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow, studying John’s sleeping face. He was relaxed, lighter looking, so unlike when he was awake and the stress of the sudden changes in his life carved deep lines in his face and weighed his shoulders down.

“Most people would say staring at a sleeping person is creepy, you know,” John muttered, blinking his eyes open. Sherlock had been so entranced by studying him that he hadn’t noticed John wake up.

“Would you?”

“No,” John gave him a sleepy smile, “but I’m not most people.” He stretched out his legs next to Sherlock’s, moving to sit up.

“Don’t get up yet,” Sherlock pleaded. He laid his free arm across John’s waist, pulling him back toward him. “I like this,” he admitted. “I didn’t think I would. I don’t like people touching me usually.”

“I like it too,” John assured him, “but I’d like it a lot more if I didn’t have to piss. Can you let me up? I’m about to burst.”

Sherlock let go of him, flopping on his back with a huff. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. The human bladder can hold up to 600 millilitres of liquid without unreasonable discomfort. You would be in pain long before the elastic material of the bladder actually _burst_.”

“Good to know!” John called over his shoulder, already thumping down the stair with his cane.

Sherlock felt a bloom of warmth in his chest. His husband was home, living with him. He’d woken up in bed with his husband, happier and more comfortable than he’d been in a long time. He could wake up like that every morning for the rest of his life, he was _allowed_ to, no one could take that away from him. Not even Mycroft, because Mycroft was the one who had given it to him.

Sherlock let what was surely a very silly smile spread across his face.

Retrieving his dressing gown from where he’d tossed it the night before, Sherlock followed John downstairs. He found John in the kitchen, trying to clear space with one hand.

“Do you always take over every flat surface?” he asked. Sherlock shrugged, rescuing a rack of test tubes from being pushed off the counter with an unnoticed elbow. He gathered up the glassware that was no longer needed, depositing it in the sink to be washed at some point. Maybe he’d get around to it, but more likely Mrs Hudson would become overwhelmed with the mess and do it for him.

“My experiments,” he said, by way of an explanation.

John shook his head fondly. “Anything in the fridge?” He opened it and promptly shut it. “Ah,” he said, opening the refrigerator again. “Not unless I’m in the mood for feet.”

Sherlock flushed, embarrassed. “It’s another- “

“Experiment,” John finished for him. “I think I’ll just get dressed and see what that place next door has.”

* * *

 

Their first full day together passed quietly. Sherlock did something with the feet in the fridge that might have alarmed a lesser man. John unpacked his few boxes in the room upstairs, though he privately wondered how long he would actually be using it. Sherlock had seemed to enjoying staying with him and waking up together, as did John. Sleeping in the same bed could be moving too fast for them, or it could be long overdue, considering they had been married for three years, but if it felt right to them, who was to say it was wrong?

They called for Chinese takeaway that evening, shoving a messy stack of Sherlock’s papers off the coffee table to eat. Sherlock regaled him with tales of Donovan and Anderson, and John poked fun at them all. They settled in with a cup of tea each after dinner, John taking possession of the red armchair that seemed to have been placed there for him. Sherlock read the paper, grumbling over the article about the ‘serial suicides’ and complaining about police incompetence and how they were clearly murders, he just didn’t know how yet.

Their calm evening was broken by footsteps thundering up the stairs.

“Sherlock!”

John turned toward the door, mug paused halfway to his mouth.

“Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted, one leg folded over his knee, mug resting on his ankle. “What’s different about this one?”

DI Greg Lestrade, as John remembered, stared at Sherlock for a second before he gathered his wits again. “You know how they never leave notes? Well, this one did.”

John recognized the interest in the way Sherlock suddenly tensed. “Where?”

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?” Lestrade looked like John’s idea of a typical overworked cop, his dark hair streaked with silver.

Sherlock pondered, but John could see the sparkle of excitement in his eyes. “Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock’s mouth screwed up in distaste. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well he won’t be your assistant!”

“I need an assistant!”

“Sherlock,” John snapped. He didn’t know if Sherlock really needed an assistant or not, but the DI was clearly exhausted and didn’t need Sherlock playing with him. Sherlock shot him a look and John tapped the chain of his tags around his neck, indicating his own ability to serve as an assistant.

“Will you come?” Lestrade pleaded.

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled. “Not in a squad car, though, right behind.”

Lestrade clomped back down the stairs, and the flat was silent for a moment. Then Sherlock leapt from his chair like a coiled spring, pumping his fists. “Brilliant! Four suicides and now a note, oh, it’s Christmas!” he exclaimed, spinning around and kissing John on the forehead. He froze, but John just smiled happily and hauled himself out of his chair. Sherlock’s childlike joy was infectious.

* * *

 

Other than an argument with Sergeant Sally Donovan and the revelation that Sherlock had spent two years submitting to being called Freak by the Met’s finest, which John was not going to stand for, they got into the crime scene without any problems.

John was sure he had a ridiculously fond, dopey smile on his face as Sherlock rattled off deductions. His husband hardly paused for breath.

“Where has there been significant wind and rain in the last four hours? Cardiff.” He flipped his mobile around for a second, giving them a glimpse of a weather map.

“Fantastic.” It popped out of his mouth without conscious thought.

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asked.

“Sorry, I’ll stop.”

“No,” Sherlock objected hastily. “It’s…fine.” He smiled shyly, and John suspected it was more than fine.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade croaked. He was staring at Sherlock’s hand, the one he had removed his glove from. “Is that…a ring?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered dismissively. “Where’s the case?”

“Why are you wearing a ring, Sherlock?” Lestrade seemed to be stuck mentally.

“Because I’m married.” The ‘of course’ hung unspoken in the air.

Lestrade gaped soundlessly for a moment, rather like a fish, until John took pity on him. “I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced,” he said, stripping off his latex gloves and offering a hand. “I’m Dr John Holmes.”

Lestrade’s gaze flicked down to his other hand, looking for his ring. “Ah,” he croaked. “Er, how long?”

“Three years.”

“So you were married when you started with,” Lestrade realised, turning back to Sherlock. “You never said!”

“It wasn’t important.” Sherlock waved his concern away. “Now, her case.”

“But you just let them make fun of you!” Lestrade cried.

“It doesn’t matter!” Sherlock shouted. “Why does everyone care so much? It isn’t important right now, not like the woman lying dead between us.”

Lestrade snapped out of the mental loop he’d been stuck on. “Yes, right. There wasn’t a case.”

That fact sent Sherlock into paroxysms of happiness. He ran out the door shouting about mistakes and Rachel and how much he loved serial killers and pink, leaving John alone with Lestrade, who was staring at him like some sort of alien.

“Right, well,” John shuffled uncomfortably, tapping his cane against the ground. “I’d best go catch him.”

Sherlock, however, had vanished. Donovan watched him pityingly as he came out.

“He’s gone,” she called. “Run off. Left you behind, did he?”

“Sherlock? No,” John lied. He didn’t like Donovan. No sense in giving her any more ammunition to use against his husband. “No, I’m meeting him at home. I can’t keep up with him, what with my leg and all.”

Donovan looked at him like she was assessing a threat. “You aren’t nobody,” she decided. “He doesn’t just bring people along. So who are you?”

“His better half,” he quipped. He didn’t like her, not from the second she opened her mouth, and he felt like rubbing it in. “Three years now.” He flashed his ring. “John, or Dr Holmes if you ask Sherlock.”

Donovan sneered at him. “Where’ve you been, then?” she demanded. “Under the bed?”

“Afghanistan, actually,” he replied coldly. “RAMC.”

“Oh god.” She pressed a hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry.”

“Nice to know,” he snapped, stepping closer to her. “Just so you know, Sherlock is my whole life. If I hear anyone call him ‘Freak’ again, the consequences will dire. For all of you.” Not allowing her the chance to reply, he strode past her with as much pride and authority as he could muster with a cane.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock pressed his free hand to the crook of his elbow. He was fully aware it wouldn’t make the compound absorb any faster, but he still did it anyway. He needed it, needed the clarity it provided. This case was twisted, vague and shadowy and exciting, like nothing else had been for weeks. It was exactly what Sherlock had needed, what he’d been desperate for.

Some small part of his mind registered the syncopated thumps of John coming up the stairs.

“Sherlock, you think you could not leave me to walk six blocks- what are you doing?”

Sherlock realised that, seeing him laying wide-eyed on the sofa clutching the crook of his elbow, perhaps John might have reached the wrong conclusions. “Nicotine patch,” he explained, letting his arm fall. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

“Good news for breathing,” John muttered.

“Ugh, breathing,” Sherlock grunted, still entranced by the problem. “Breathing’s boring. There’s no other way, we’ll have to risk it. On my desk there’s a number, I want you to send a text.”

“No.”

“These words exactly-, what?” John’s reply registered finally and Sherlock sat up, tugging his sleeve down.

“I said no.” John sat heavily in his chair. “What’s wrong with your phone?”

“There’s always a chance it will be recognised, the number’s on the website,” Sherlock replied warily, studying John’s face. “You’re upset. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing much,” John said in a mockingly casual voice, “just that you swanned off and left me at a crime scene I’m probably not allowed to be at with people I don’t know. I gave Donovan some story about meeting you at home because I can’t keep up and then had to walk six blocks before Mycroft took pity on me and gave me a ride.”

Sherlock scowled, an automatic reaction to his brother’s name. “It’s not a real injury, John, it’s psychosomatic,” he pointed out.

The cold expression on John’s face told him that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “It’s fucking pain, Sherlock!” he shouted, slamming his crutch against the floor. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not. It. Still. Hurts.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead and Sherlock looked down at his lap. “Where did you go, anyway?”

“I had to find the case,” Sherlock explained. He looked up again, leaning forward in his intensity. “Don’t you see, John? This is it, this is the mistake that breaks the case!”

“Are you always like this?” John asked suddenly. “On a case, I mean.”

“Only on the interesting ones,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. He paused as he realised what John had actually meant. “John, I am sorry about leaving you behind. I’ve not had to care about anyone else before, especially during a case. Perhaps I got…carried away.”

John stared at him, lips pursed, for a long moment, making Sherlock squirm inside. Eventually he accepted Sherlock’s apology with a sharp nod. “Here,” he tossed his mobile at the detective. “Send your bloody text.”

* * *

 

Sherlock sent off the text and handed John’s phone back, grabbing a small pink suitcase from the kitchen and setting it down between their chairs.

“That’s…the case,” John said, realising how unnecessary his words were only once they left his mouth.

“Obviously,” Sherlock smirked at him. “Oh, perhaps I should say I didn’t kill her.”

John grinned. “Be rather hard to do when you were with me since, oh, yesterday afternoon.”

“You were asleep for some of it,” Sherlock pointed out, smiling as well.

“But the pink lady only died a couple of hours ago, and I was awake then,” John replied. “How did you know where to find it?”

Sherlock perched on the back of his chair, feet in the seat. “The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens, he could only keep her case by accident if it was in a car. Nobody could been seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. It wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake,” he added with a dismissive shrug. “I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens and any way you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me half an hour to find the right skip.”

John was fairly certain he was gaping mindlessly. “Pink,” he managed eventually. “You got all that because you knew the case had to be pink.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose adorably. “Well it had to be pink, obviously.”

John leaned back in his chair. “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being fascinated by the way your brain works.”

Sherlock gave him an odd look. “I thought you were having a strop.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t admire you,” John replied. “Some of us lesser beings have learned to do two things at once. Now,” he cut Sherlock off from another attempt to apologise, “why did you need my phone to send a text?”

“What’s missing from her case?” Sherlock spread his hands apart. “Her phone. No phone in the case, no phone on the body, where is it? We know she had one, I’ve just texted the number.”

“Maybe she left it at home?” John suggested, throwing out ideas. He figured Sherlock knew exactly where the mobile phone was, but he didn’t mind being included.

“She was a serial adulterer with a string of lovers,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “She would be more careful than that.”

“She…could have lost it?” John grinned when Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “No, too careful, right. So…” John glanced at the phone in his hand, “the murderer has it?” Sherlock smiled. “Did we just text a murderer?” They both startled as John’s phone rang.

( _withheld_ ) _calling_

“Hours after his last victim and he gets a text that can only be from her,” Sherlock said, clearly relishing the moment. “If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murder...” he jumped up, pulling on his jacket, “would panic!” He added his coat and scarf on top. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, you could just sit there and,” Sherlock affected a disgusted expression, “watch telly.”

“What, you want me to come with you?” John asked, a smile growing on his face again.

Sherlock shrugged. “You are my husband,” he smirked. “Besides, I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention.” He gestured absentmindedly to the bone on the mantle. “Dinner is included.”

“Oh, well, dinner you say,” John teased, levering himself out of the chair and following Sherlock down the stairs.

* * *

 

They were halfway down the block before Sherlock realised he had John’s cane in one hand and John’s hand on his elbow. Apparently the positioning had been automatic, for both of them, and he wondered if such familiarity was welcome or dangerous.

“So where are we going?” John asked.

Apparently John had also followed him out the door without even demanding an explanation. This was definitely leaning more towards welcome. “Angelo’s. The text I sent included an address on Northumberland Street, we can watch from the restaurant.” He hesitated. “It will mean sitting by the window.”

John gave him a rueful smile. “Don’t worry about me. Discomfort and a little paranoia are things I can handle.”

“Some day,” Sherlock said slowly, looking down that handful of inches into his husband’s darkened eyes, “you’ll have to tell me about how you got the Cross.”

“Mm,” John hummed, looking away, “some day.” He leaned against Sherlock’s shoulder for a second. “So you think this guy is stupid enough to just…show up?”

Accepting the attempt to redirect the conversation, Sherlock grinned. “No, I think he’s brilliant enough. I do love the brilliant ones, they’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“The frailty of genius, eh?” John chuckled.

“Does that make you my audience?”

“Yeah,” the shorter man murmured with a squeeze of Sherlock’s elbow, “I suppose it does.”

“This is his hunting ground,” Sherlock explained, gesturing to the busy street around them, “right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything, because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.”

“That’s…unlikely,” John frowned.

“Ah, but not impossible,” Sherlock pointed out. “Think! Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes, unnoticed, wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

John frowned, his forehead wrinkling in thought. “Don’t know, who?”

It was there, it was _right_ _there_ , floating in the shadows of his mind. God, it was so _close!_ But… “Haven’t the faintest,” he admitted. “Oh look, we’re here.”

* * *

 

John could already tell his shoulder was going to stiffen up on him later, payback for how rigid he held himself now. Sherlock had positioned him with his back to the window, leaving him free to stare across the street. John could pretend it was a solid wall all he liked, but he had yet to convincingly lie to anyway, especially himself.

“You may as well eat,” Sherlock said, tossing his menu across the table. “We’re in for a long wait.”

“What, you don’t eat on cases?” John asked, surprised.

“No, digestion slows me down.” Sherlock never took his eyes off Northumberland Street. “It’s the same with sleep.”

“You know,” John said through a mouthful of complementary bread and olive oil, “as a doctor I’m required to tell you that isn’t healthy.” He washed it down with a gulp of water. “But as your husband I can see I’m going to be spending a lot of nights sleeping alone while you work.”

It was only when Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he looked away that John realised he’d assumed they would be sleeping together as a matter of course. “John…”

“No, don’t worry about it,” John interrupted. “We can talk later, you…think. Do your thing,” he grinned, and Sherlock’s face cleared as he nodded.

“Look,” he said suddenly. “Taxi parked across the street, nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi?” He sounded more like he was talking to himself instead of John, so John let him carry on. “Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

John turned around to look. “That’s him?”

“Don’t stare.”

“You’re staring,” John pointed out.

“We can’t both stare,” Sherlock retorted, reaching for his coat. John followed him automatically.

There was a moment where they paused on the pavement, eyes glued to the back of the cab, and the tension stretched between them. Then it snapped like a rubber band pulled too far and the cab started to drive away. Sherlock followed it without thinking, right into the street, forcing a passing car to slam on the brakes before it hit him too hard, and he rolled onto the hood a bit.

“Sodding hell, Sherlock!” John sounded over the sound of the car’s horn.

Then they were off, sprinting down side streets and jumping across rooftops, and John hadn’t felt so alive since Afghanistan.

* * *

 

The cab was a dead end, and they’d had to run back to Baker Street to avoid the real police.

It wasn’t an entirely pointless run, though. It hadn’t escaped Sherlock’s notice that John had left his cane behind at Angelo’s, though it had escaped John’s. He ran with even steps and short, economical motions of his arms, the efficient form of a soldier used to carrying far more extra weight than a wool jumper and a coat. His walk had the same efficiency without the crutch as well, though John was slightly bowlegged.

Psychosomatic symptoms were just a quirk of the brain. All he’d needed was a rush of adrenaline, a good old-fashioned desperate cab chase, to fix him right up. Sherlock doubted he’d need the cane again, and he would find great pleasure in binning the damned thing.

Though that wasn’t the only good thing to come out of their adventure. John’s breathless giggle, strangely high-pitched for such a masculine man, was a sound he would preserve carefully in his Mind Palace. He’d long ago created a room for all things John, but recent events encouraged expansion, perhaps even a whole John wing.

“That was ridiculous,” John panted, leaning against wall. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock said, leaning beside him to catch his breath. He was rewarded with another round of breathless giggles, bringing a smile to his face and a laugh of his own rumbling in his chest.

“That wasn’t just me,” John pointed out. “Why are we back at the restaurant?”

“Oh, they can keep an eye out,” Sherlock replied with a dismissive hand wave. “It was a long shot anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?”

Sherlock coughed against the dryness in his throat from the run. “Oh, just passing the time,” he turned to John, “and proving a point.”

“What point?”

“You.” There was a knock at the door. “That’s Angelo with your cane now.”

John’s face broke into a wide, delighted smile. “Oh, you…” he breathed, “you clever bastard. You can’t fix everything, you know!” he shouted over his shoulder as he answered the door.

“I fixed this, didn’t I?” Sherlock replied smugly.

The door to the A flat opened and Mrs Hudson emerged in a state of distress. “Oh, Sherlock, what’ve you done?”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“Upstairs.”

Sherlock shared a look with John, whose face had fallen into a worried expression, as the levity leaked out of the moment. He took the stairs two at a time, his husband just behind him.

The flat at the top was in disarray, full of people pawing through his things, and Lestrade was sitting in his chair. “What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade said, unconcerned. “I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat!”

“Well you can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade shot back. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this, then?” Sherlock demanded, gesturing to the chaos around them. John was frozen in the doorway, stunned.

“It’s a drugs bust,” Lestrade said, far too cheery.

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but an all-too-familiar voice from behind him spoke first. “Seriously?”

He turned to see John standing rigidly, his left hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. His face was blank, but his eyes were full of held-back disappointment and a kind of sad hope, like he so desperately wanted Sherlock to prove him wrong.

“Sherlock, you didn’t,” he said softly, and the quiet pain in his voice nearly broke Sherlock’s heart. “Tell me you didn’t.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Tell me you didn’t.” John felt like the words were pulled from him, torn away by the fear in Sherlock’s eyes.

“John…”

“You were supposed to be clean,” John said quietly, fully aware of all the people in the flat and just how much he didn’t want them watching this. Sherlock stood frozen and fragile, like the wrong words might shatter him into a thousand pieces. “Mycroft _promised_ me you were going to be clean.”

“John, I _am_ clean,” Sherlock replied, just as quietly but no less fervently. He burst into motion, yanking on the buttons of his cuffs and shoving his sleeves up. “I swear I’m clean.” He shoved his arms into John grasp, baring the inside of his elbows. “I haven’t used since before we were married.”

John ran his thumbs over the trackmarks, fading scars all years old. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “I believe you.” He pulled Sherlock forward, wrapping his arm around the taller man’s waist instead. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s chest.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock whispered into his hair before turning to look over his shoulder and raising his voice. “You could have waited with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade,” he said coolly. “You didn’t need to jeopardize my _marriage_ with a pretend drugs bust. Unlike _you_ , I’d rather keep my first one.”

“It stops being pretend if they find anything,” the Inspector replied, just as cool. “You may be clean, but is your flat?”

“Do you really think so little of me, Lestrade?” Sherlock growled, taking a step toward the man in his chair. John held him back with a grip on his wrist before sliding his hand down to tangle their fingers together.

“I don’t know what to think about you, Sherlock,” Lestrade admitted, standing. “Christ, I didn’t even know you were married until today. Let’s just make this easier on everyone involved and work together, all right?”

John gave Sherlock’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

“We found Rachel,” Lestrade said. “She’s Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.” It took John a second to remember that Jennifer Wilson was the name of the pink lady.

“You need to bring Rachel in and you need to question her,” Sherlock said, doing that thing where he leaned forward in his intensity again and speaking quickly. “I need to question her.”

“She’s dead,” Lestrade told him bluntly.

“Excellent.” John pursed his lips at Sherlock’s excitement. “How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it,” Lestrade said slowly, “since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter fourteen years ago.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “No,” he muttered, “that’s not right. How…why would she do that? Why?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson asked acerbically from the kitchen. “I knew you were a psychopath. You honestly don’t get it, do you?”

“She didn’t think about her daughter,” Sherlock spat back, and John tightened his grip on his hand again. “She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying, it would have hurt.”

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it,” John said, partly to distract Sherlock a bit and partly to try and keep up. “Well maybe he, I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.”

“Yeah, but that was ages ago,” Sherlock replied, spinning to look at him. “Why would she still be upset?” It sounded harsh and uncaring, but John could see that it was an actual question. Sherlock had never lost someone he cared about so much that no amount of time could heal the pain. “Not good?” he asked self-consciously.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John answered quietly.

“Yeah, but if you were dying,” Sherlock said, jumping right back into it, “if you’d been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?”

John stiffened again. Those weren’t times he liked to think about. “Sherlock.” The man kept watching him, one eyebrow raised. “That’s…what I said,” John explained. “Sherlock.”

* * *

 

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped. The flat fell silent around them, everyone going still to watch, but he hardly noticed. “Really?”

John gave a short, sharp nod, and the way he pulled his hand away, clasping them behind his back in a soldier’s instinctive posture, told Sherlock he’d crossed a line when asking about dying moments.

“Right,” he murmured, forcing the wheels of his brain back into motion. They’d fallen still with John’s revelation. “Right. But that’s not it, it wasn’t a simple lamentation.” He started pacing. “Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever. It’s a message, she’s trying to tell us something.”

“Isn’t the doorbell working?” Mrs Hudson asked from the doorway, unforgivably interrupting a thought process that was close, so close! “Your taxi’s here.”

“I didn’t order a taxi. Go away,” Sherlock barked. He registered her tutting over the mess and John explaining the drugs bust to her. It was so like Mrs Hudson to be concerned about her little holistic ‘herbal soothers’ that weren’t even as strong as a low-tar cigarette. “Shut up, everybody, just shut up! Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even think! Anderson, face the other way, you’re putting me off,” he added on a whim, feeling slightly vindicated when Lestrade compounded the order.

“What about your taxi?” Mrs Hudson, twittered.

“Mrs Hudson!”

Rachel, Rachel, the name was important to her. It was a message, a word that was meaningful. What did people use meaningful words for, words and phrases they would need to remember? Passwords. But a password to what, for what, what did he need it for? And where was her phone? No laptop, no PDA, just a phone- oh.

“Ah,” he let out a relieved breath at solving it, the sweet rush of success. “She was clever, clever, yes. She was cleverer than you lot, and she’s dead!” John and Lestrade had matching frowns. “She didn’t lose her phone, she planted it! When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left her phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

Lestrade gave him a look that was clearly that on a man falling desperately behind. “But…but how?”

“What do you mean, how?” Sherlock stopped pacing. “Rachel.” There was no light of understanding. “Rachel! None of you get it, do you? God, you’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name.”

“Then what is it?” John snapped, and Sherlock could hear in his voice that he had pushed too far.

“John, on the luggage, there’s a label. E-mail address,” Sherlock instructed, foregoing an explanation for a practical demonstration.

John rattled off the address as Sherlock pulled up the website and typed it in. “I’ve been too slow,” he murmured. “She didn’t have her computer which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smart phone that’s e-mail enabled, so there was a website for her account. The user name in her e-mail address and- all together now- the password is…”

“Rachel,” John said from behind him. Ah, good, his husband was still with his train of thought. As much as he could be, anyway.

“So we can read her e-mail,” Anderson drawled from the kitchen. “So what?”

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street.” Sherlock suppressed a grin when he hear John snort. “It’s a smart phone, it’s got GPS, which means we can track it online.”

“Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver-“

Sherlock could not handle one more interruption by his landlady, and he nearly growled as he stalked over to her. “Mrs Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?”

“Sherlock?” John called in an odd voice, having taken Sherlock’s seat at the desk. “It’s…here, it’s in 221 Baker Street.”

“How?” Sherlock whispered, hardly noticing it was out loud.

He vaguely realised John speaking to Lestrade and the Detective Inspector issuing orders to search for a mobile. His head was spinning, facts and snatches of conversation whirling around and around in a mess that hid the solution from him.

A text alert broke through the storm in his mind. The number wasn’t in his contacts, but he recognised it as the number to Jennifer Wilson’s phone.

COME WITH ME

Oh. The taxi. His mouth moved, giving some vague excuse to John, but his thoughts had followed the cabbie down the stairs already and his body was being pulled along behind.

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

 

“He’s just got in a cab,” John muttered incredulously from the window. “It’s…Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

“He does that,” Donovan said acerbically, rounding on Lestrade. “He bloody left again. We’re wasting our time!”

How many people had said that about Sherlock? How many had given up on him just because he didn’t fit their idea of what a school boy should be, or a student, or a man? John felt a hot flash of anger, directed yet again at Sergeant Donovan.

Lestrade gave him a pitying look, and John scowled. “I’m calling the phone,” he explained, holding his mobile away from his ear. “It’s ringing out.”

Lestrade frowned thoughtfully. “Well if it’s ringing, it’s not here.”

“I’ll try the search again.”

“Oh, does it matter?” Donovan cried. “Does any of it? He’s just a lunatic and he’ll always let you down- “

John was in her face in a second, his shorter frame towering over her in his anger. “I warned you,” he growled. “Not three hours ago, I warned you. Insult my husband, my Sherlock, again, and I will have you in court for harassment faster than you can say ‘Freak’ again, understand?” He turned to the kitchen. “And the same for you, Anderson. You’ve both hurt him, and I have no intentions of letting it go.”

There was silence in the flat as the two processed John’s words. Even Lestrade seemed to be in shock. The only sounds were the Constables still searching.

“Is…is that a Victoria Cross?” one of the younger men spoke up, staring at John’s medal on the mantelpiece. John froze, and a whisper of pain shot through his knee. “’Presented to Lieutenant John H Holmes, MD, by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.’ This is the highest military honour there is.” The Constable stared at him in awe. “It was never in the news. Shouldn’t there have been some sort of reception?”

“It was kept quiet,” John explained stiffly, aware of everyone’s wide eyes glued to his face. “I had just started another tour in Afghanistan. Sherlock accepted it in my place, we were married about a month before.”

“Sorry,” the Constable whispered.

Lestrade shook his head. “Donovan, Anderson, once this case is done you two are taking a few days off.” He raised his voice to cut across their complaints. “I’m sending you to sensitivity training again. No, knock it off, I should have done it ages ago.” He gripped John’s shoulder apologetically. “You’re right, John. I’m sorry.” John accepted it with a nod. “Okay, everybody, done here.”

John sighed heavily as everyone dropped what they were doing and filed out. It would take ages to put the flat back together, and that was assuming he knew where Sherlock’s things went, which he didn’t. Though judging from how it had looked that morning, Sherlock’s things mostly went all over the place.

“Why did he do that?” Lestrade asked, pulling on his coat. “Why did he have to leave?”

John shrugged. “Thrill of the chase, I suppose. You know Sherlock.”

“I’ve known him since his cocaine days, and no I don’t,” Lestrade muttered. “Your husband’s a great man, though,” he added, “and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one. We’ll have you to thank for that, too.” He gave John one last curious look and tromped down the stairs.

John slumped, rubbing his forehead as he surveyed the damage. He was exhausted and worried about Sherlock, and he just wanted a cup of tea while he waited for the detective to return. Deciding to leave the rest of it for the morning, he cleared a space on the counter and sat the kettle upright, filling it with water.

Why had Sherlock left? He’d gone all funny, too, like he was completely focused on something out. Just popping out, my arse, John thought. He replayed the moment in his head: Sherlock searching for the phone, finding it in Baker Street, getting a text…who could text Sherlock and drag him away from a case?

Oh. _Oh_. The murderer. It must have been a text from the pink lady’s number. So he had hailed a cab and gone to meet him somewhere.

Except…the cab had already been there, hadn’t it? Mrs Hudson had come up a couple of times, saying something about a taxi that had come for Sherlock. Sherlock had been talking to the cabbie outside when John had watched through the window, so did that mean…the cabbie was the killer? It was a cab that had stopped outside the address Sherlock texted to the killer, and people trusted cab drivers all the time.

Oh, Jesus, Sherlock had just gone off with the killer. Christ, he needed to find that cab, he needed to call Lestrade or Mycroft or somebody who could track them down.

John turned off the kettle and dashed upstairs to grab his gun. He had a feeling deep in his gut that he might need it, illegal firearm or not. He’d just tucked it into the back of his jeans and come down the stairs again when the search for the phone pinged again. It was halfway across the city, and no doubt Sherlock was with it.

Taking the laptop with him, John dashed down the stairs and out to the street.

* * *

 

Sherlock raised a shaking hand to his mouth, the pill pinched between his finger and thumb. The cabbie’s words were infectious, seeping into his mind and echoing in his thoughts. How could he walk away from a challenge? How dare this feeble-minded creature think himself better than Sherlock? Sherlock’s mind was his crowning glory, his techniques of observation were his Magnum Opus, his life’s work.

“This,” the cabbie whispered seductively, “this is what you live for, what you love. Not your spouse, but the game, the thrill of the puzzle, the distraction.” He drew the out the sibilant sounds, nearly hissing as he raised his own pill to his lips. “Not bored now, are you?”

What if he was wrong? What would he think about as he died? Not Mycroft, he wasted too much thought on his brother already to carry him into death. His parents were gone already, and there wasn’t anyone he counted as a friend. Surely all those stories about a life flashing before someone’s eyes were false. What a repeat that would be, how dull.

 _John_.

His husband. He was attached to John, wasn’t he? Quite possibly even loved him, though Sherlock had no experiences of love to compare it too.

Captain John Hamish Holmes, RAMC. Doctor John Holmes, MD. John, his John. His short blond hair came to Sherlock’s mind, and his dark blue eyes with those starburst patterns in them. The smell and warmth of him that had surrounded Sherlock just that morning. _His_ John.

“Isn’t it good?” the cabbie crooned.

The bullet tore through the cabbie’s heart, the gunshot reverberating in the night air.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, scrambling backwards. The pill slipped from his fingers.

* * *

 

John waited outside the police tape, watching with amusement as Sherlock kept refusing the orange shock blanket the paramedics were trying to press on him. Lestrade approached him, but Sherlock shook him off as his eyes met John’s. He wadded up the blanket, stuffing it inside the open window of the nearest cruiser as he ducked under the tape.

“Someone’s just told me about everything,” John said. “Two pills. Dreadful business, isn’t it? Dreadful.”

Sherlock smirked. “Good shot.”

“Oh good, you’ve realised,” John replied casually.

“Of course I have,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Good,” John repeated, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “Then you should also realise that you’re not ever going to run off like that and leave me behind again. Understand?”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said, cowed. He took John’s hands in his. “I know what you meant, now.”

“What’s that?”

“About dying,” Sherlock explained quietly, his intense gaze locked with John’s. “There was a moment when I wondered if I had the wrong pill and I thought I might die,” he admitted. “I thought about you.”

John seized him by the lapels and kissed him.


	5. Chapter 5

“There was a moment when I wondered if I had the wrong pill and I thought I might die,” Sherlock admitted. He would never forget that moment and the sheer terror that it had brought. “I thought about you.”

For a fraction of a second, John stared at him with wide eyes, and the crime scene around them all but melted away. Then John pulled him down by his jacket lapels and kissed him.

Sherlock froze in surprise, but John’s lips were insistent on his, coaxing him into responding. John’s hands roamed, landing on anything he could hold onto: Sherlock’s coat, his neck, his hair, his shoulders. Sherlock gripped John’s waist and pulled him closer, his eyes falling shut as he responded to John’s passion. The kiss was sweetly intense, full of the thrill of life and adrenaline and the promise of so much more to come.

John pulled away, leaning their foreheads together as they caught their breath. “You idiot,” he panted. “You’re not allowed to die on me.”

“Never, John,” Sherlock promised. He straightened, gathering his scattered thoughts back together. “Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.” He studied John’s face. “Are you alright?”

“Of course,” John frowned.

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” John turned to look out over the crime scene. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.” Sherlock gave him an unimpressed look, and John sighed. “If you’re worried about my nightmares, don’t be. I’ll sleep fine tonight.” He leaned into Sherlock for a second, then stepped back and laced their fingers together instead. “You know, I never did get to eat dinner. I’m starving.”

Sherlock grinned at him, already leading the way out. “At the end of Baker Street there’s a good Chinese that stays open ‘til two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.”

“Sherlock,” John cut him off. “Looks like a family reunion.” He nodded toward a sleek black car that had just pulled up. Mycroft climbed out of the back.

“So, another case cracked,” Mycroft said in greeting. “How very public spirited. But that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

Sherlock ignored his taunting. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“As ever, I am concerned about you,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “I came to see how the pair of you were getting on, though judging from the rather obvious display that just occurred, the answer is ‘quite well.” He turned to John with a smile and an offered hand. “Good evening, John.”

John smiled back, shaking his hand. “Mycroft, hello.”

“Putting on weight again?” Sherlock put in snidely.

Mycroft gave him a severely unimpressed look. “Losing it, in fact.”

“Well, congratulations,” John said in an overtly-cheery voice. “Sherlock and I were just going to get something to eat and then it’s off to bed, so you’ll have to pop ‘round another time. Goodnight!”

Sherlock could see his own shock and amazement mirrored on his brother’s face as John dragged him away.

* * *

 

Unlike the hesitation of the night before, their first night, John had no chance to be nervous. Sherlock pulled him toward his bedroom as soon as they shucked their coats and shoes. “Stay with me,” he pleaded. “I want you to stay in here.”

“Sherlock.” John pulled his arm free. “Sherlock. I will,” he promised. “Just let me go change, yeah? I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock was dressed for bed when he returned, perched on the edge of the bed and tapping his fingers restlessly. His whole expression brightened when John re-entered the room, closing the door behind him. Wordlessly, they got into bed. John turned out the bedside lamp as Sherlock curled around his back, spooning him.

John raised the hand clutched around his waist to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “I’m not going to leave you, Sherlock,” he promised.

Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “My John,” he whispered into John’s shoulder.

“My genius,” John murmured back. He turned his head and kissed his genius softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thus ends Blind Love! Here I give my sincerest thanks to everyone who has read, especially those who took the time to comment or leave comments.
> 
> The third part of the Blind series will be called Blind Faith. It's in the works, and I have tons of deliciously angsty ideas just waiting to be put on a page. Blind Faith will introduce the lovely Irene Adler, as well as the inestimable Jim Moriarty, and that is all I will say about that!


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